Before the Strandline- Rules

by Linda L Zern

  “Pollyanna, you’re being a Pollyanna. Looking at the bright side.” Darby stopped and gulped. “But if they find us. All those people, our friends . . . they’re back there and they’re gone. You know they are.”

  Brittany opened her mouth, started to answer, but Ella cut her off.

  “Be quiet. The camp is burning. Survivors will scatter. No one joins us. Do you understand? No one. There’s enough in that bag for us for a week, and then that’s it.”

  There it was again: Ella hissing out orders—hard and controlled. For some reason, it made Brittany feel better to hear the anger in her sister’s voice.

  In the gloom, sounds blew up and became more intense. A whippoorwill warmed up in the deep woods. Leaves rattled over their head. A rasp like two small knives being sharpened sounded in the darkness. Slice. Grind. Slice. Grind.

  Brittany cocked her head. It was a familiar sound, a sound she felt she should know. And then she knew. The scissors. Ella had the scissors out.

  Next to Brittany’s ear, Ella whispered, “I’m cutting it off.” Ella caught Brittany’s ponytail in her hand and pulled it tight. Instinctively, Brittany reached up to protect her hair, but knew it had to be done. She let her hand drop. Ella chopped off her hair.

  Darby said nothing as Ella pulled wads of her hair tight and snipped, snipped, snipped. “You two rub the dirt over your face and hair. We’ll hide the big bag, carry the supplies in hobo bags. There are bandanas in the bottom of the bag. Break it down, and then we’re heading to the front lines.”

  Brittany shot up straight, her hand already full of damp leaves to rub on her face. “Where? Where is that? And how do you know?”

  “The medical tent, in the medical tent there was a man who the Red Cross brought in from beyond the front gate. A soldier. He talked about the fighting along Highway 95 and Highway 207, to the east. We’re going. East. All of us. He said the Junior Militia was part of it. He described Ryan . . . or someone who sounded like our Ryan.”

  “And Mom and Dad?” Hope colored Darby’s voice with joy.

  “Now who’s being a Pollyanna?” To take the sting out of what she’d said, Brittany ran a hand over her little sister’s hacked-up hair.

  “Come on. Rest up before we go. At nigh,t before the moon rises.”

  Behind them the glow of the Palatka FEMA Camp fire burned throughout the night, a violent landmark pushing them east into the war and hopefully their brother Ryan Summerlin.

  Smearing themselves with dirt turned out to be overkill Brittany realized, and by the time they wandered into the woods that butted up to Interstate 95 they hardly resembled humans, let alone girl types. They’d gone through the supplies Ella had stockpiled the first week and a bit into the second. By then they were drinking water they boiled in a collapsible camp pot and scrounging the woods for whatever they thought might not kill them to eat. Pine needles made an interesting tea. They ate cattails and turtle eggs from a snapping turtle. They stumbled over the eggs when they found the turtle covering her nest along the bank of a lake. It kept them going—but not much else.

  At the end of the second week, the sounds of war greeted them. But it wasn’t any kind of sound the Summerlin girls recognized. The big guns had gone silent—no more ammunition—the gasoline was gone, and the big trucks, even if they still could run, were powerless. Now the sounds of war were the sounds of men clashing hand-to-hand.

  “How are we going to find him in all that?” Brittany stood in the shade of a thicket of elderberry bushes. The fighting was out of sight but not far. All they had to understand what was in front of them were the noises. Was Ryan even here?

  “And Mom and Dad?” Darby asked.

  She constantly needed reassurance. Brittany shrugged.

  Ella didn’t answer either one of them. Since the FEMA camp she’d grown quieter and sharper.

  “Be still, both of you. They’ll be scouts in the woods.”

  Darby slunk into a deeper pocket of shadows and gloom. Since the FEMA camp, Darby had gotten younger somehow, her voice often squeaking up in that whiney range that made Brittany want to slap her, but it wasn’t her little sister’s fault. She was frightened. They all were. This plan to find their brother put them all in, deep into the serious crap, because there was nothing else for them to do and nowhere else to go—only east to find Ryan.

  “What now, Ella?”

  Ella turned to Brittany, her cheekbones jutting out from her face like knife blades, and said, “Brittany, I don’t know, but we can’t stay here and starve. Tonight . . . tonight we’ll try to get closer. Take the first watch.” Ella slumped down on a bed of deer moss, curling into herself. It was like that now. Ella spraying orders out like a garden hose. Ella shutting herself away even when she was near. Darby squeaky and frightened. All of them hungry.

  It helped Brittany to keep her hands busy when her sisters sunk down into themselves the way they did. She settled in to braid three lengths of wild potato vine together. It wouldn’t be good for anything much, but it kept her hands busy and her brain off the rest of it: the noises they heard when they passed too close to towns or camps or people in general. The begging was the worst. Women begging for mercy, for food, for the lives of their children, for the men to stop. Stop. Stop. Stop!

  And then there were the faraway sounds of gunfire, of burning, of murder. The gunfire came less and less.

  She braided her vines and listened for the up-close sounds that came with the darkness, the night animals rushing about their business, the creak of wind in leaves.

  Ella slept without moving—not a twitch or a noise. Darby was invisible, probably not asleep but not wanting to talk about it either.

  When a bullfrog blew up and bellowed at the night, Brittany’s mouth watered. Frogs’ legs made a decent enough dinner. Frog song marked the edge of a swampy patch they’d walked way around to get within sight of the interstate. No one would be able to come at them from the bog side.

  Brittany dropped the vines. A big enough rustle from the ruined orange grove opposite the bog dragged her back up onto her feet.

  The brush settled. Whatever—whoever—had stopped moving. Brittany inched away from Ella. Let her sleep, it was probably nothing to worry her about, a possum or a raccoon or . . .

  Brittany tensed. They’d been lucky so far because it was only the three of them and because they moved at night because . . . well they’d been lucky. There was still enough moonlight in the month to give the sandy ground some depth. She worked her way closer to where she guessed the racoon was hiding. Better if it were possum—tastier. She wrapped her fingers around the pearl handle of the knife.

  Quiet, it was important to be quiet this close to the front, and for hunting too. Brittany threaded her way through the moss-covered limbs of an orange tree. A steady breeze filled her face. She was downwind from whatever was hiding just up ahead. Let it be food, but it wasn’t.

  Just another stray dog, thin but not skin and bones, one of those mixed up breeds—a little of this, a little of that, mostly German shepherd.

  The dog sniffed when he saw Brittany. His flanks quivered. Like everything and everyone else, he was trying to decide whether or not to run. Brittany got that. She squatted, relaxed her grip on the knife. “Calm down. You’re too skinny to eat.” It was almost true.

  Something—her tone, the words—something made the mutt visibly relax. He plopped his butt in the dirt.

  “Hey. Nice trick.” She took a chance and held out her hand to the scruffy dog. It didn’t move. “Too soon, I guess.”

  The moment stretched out. Dew started to bead in the dog’s matted coat. Time to turn the watch over to Ella, check on Darby. Brittany stood up. She heard the dog yelp, and then she was face down in the dirt, pinned. Someone had her pinned. There was dirt in her mouth, her eyes. The weight on her back threatened to crush the air out of her. Panic boiled up. She turned her head, tried to scream. A hand came over her mouth. She bit down hard.

  Her attacker jerked and cursed.
“Shit.” He reared back. Brittany bucked hard. A thump and the sick crack of bone and the weight on top of her slid off.

  Brittany scrambled onto her hands and knees away. Blindly, she crawled. A hand grabbed her ankle, held her tight, kept her prisoner. She kicked. Nothing.

  There was another wet thump followed by a grunt.

  “Brittany, Brittany, hurry up! I don’t think he’s out,” Darby said, tripping over Brittany’s leg.

  Brittany grabbed for Darby in the dark, felt for her hand, then pulled her farther away from the attacker. He was down, but maybe not out. The dog had disappeared.

  “Come on. Come on.” Half dragging each other, they headed back to the big tree next to the grove. “Ella, get up. Let’s . . . go.”

  But she was gone.

  “Darby. Is this right? Is this where she was?” Brittany spun in a circle. It was a desperate question. Brittany knew they weren’t lost. The little fire they’d used to heat water still smoked, perfuming the air with the smell of wet ashes.

  Darby whimpered. “She was here. She was here.”

  Cursing and something else, the sound of steal on steal—a sword, two swords—followed close behind them. Big knives. Machetes. Brittany’s imagination raced out of control.

  Brittany grabbed for Darby’s hand. “Run,” she hissed.

  They plunged into the heaviest of the overgrowth, heading for the thickest shadows. Brittany pulled Darby into the curve of a massive oak tree. She covered her sister’s body with her own.

  The dog barked but not at them, farther away, beyond the bog and the orange grove.

  Darby barely whispered, “Ella.”

  “Can take care of herself.”

  By the time the sun’s glow warmed the sky, Brittany’s eyes burned, and Darby sagged against the tree trunk. Exhausted, they stumbled toward the rising sun and the faraway sound of a dog barking.

  “Stop. Brittany, stop.” Darby shuffled, barely able to lift her feet out of the dirt. “Brittany, I have to pee. I’m tired.”

  “Fine. I’ll keep watch. But hurry up. We have to find her. We have to . . . go now! We lost that guy last night and his stupid dog. Hurry!”

  It made her mad when Darby flinched at the tone of her voice. Stupid kid, they didn’t have time for lovey, dovey stuff right now. They had to find Ella. Brittany slumped back against a royal palm trunk. Darby stared and pouted. How was she going to tell Darby she had absolutely no idea which way they should head? Darby crossed her legs and jiggled.

  “I said, ‘hurry.’ Just pee, already.”

  Morning flushed pink light as the sun rose. East. They’d been headed east the whole time, Ella had seen to that. Might as well keep going. Brittany closed her eyes and turned her face up to the warmth of the day.

  “Brittany!” Darby sounded . . . upset.

  “Oh God, now what?”

  Brittany smashed through the scraggly branches of the scrub oak where Darby was hiding away.

  “What?”

  Darby’s pants were around her ankles, her finger smeared with blood. “Brittany? Am I dying?”

  Confused and a bit sick at the rush of adrenaline, the reality of what was happening to Darby, her thirteen-year-old sister, dawned as slow as the rising sun.

  “Oh honey, it’s okay,” Brittany said, her mother’s words coming back to her as naturally as the way the birds began to chatter awake in the trees. “It’s just your period. It’s what happens. You know about periods, right? You’re growing up, becoming a woman.”

  Brittany pulled her shirt off. She ripped one of her sleeves free, rolled it up. “You need to keep this in your pants. We’ll try to rinse it out in a while. Wipe your hand on those leaves.” Matter of fact, that’s how Mom had treated this kind of stuff. No big deal, except now it was a big deal when you couldn’t bathe, couldn’t wash your clothes, couldn’t stay clean. She ripped the other sleeve off at the shoulder.

  She turned her back to Darby. Let her have a moment of privacy. Darby started to cry.

  “Shit,” Brittany said.

  “Brittany, you shouldn’t cuss,” Darby offered gently, tears thick in her voice.

  “Shit. I thought I’d been quiet enough that you wouldn’t hear me. Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, you can’t help it. It’s just the way the world has always worked.” Brittany made a snap decision. There was water here—not clean, but it could be boiled. They could eat frog legs and sour oranges and whatever else they could scrounge up. “Don’t hurry. We’re going to stay put for now.”

  “What about Ella?” It was hard not to hear the relief in Darby’s voice.

  “Truth time, kiddo. I haven’t a clue which way to go, Darby. And we probably should stay put anyway, so Ella can find us. And maybe we can rest up.”

  “Rest up? You mean because of this mess I’m making while Ella’s lost.”

  “No, no!” Brittany whirled around, grabbed Darby, and hugged her. “This isn’t your fault. None of this. That man last night, there were probably others. Ella will find us. She will. If she can, she will.”

  Darby’s wet cheek felt cool against Brittany’s bare shoulder.

  “You should put your shirt back on. You’ll get sunburned.”

  Typical Darby, worrying about stuff that might happen. Brittany pulled her sleeveless shirt over her threadbare bra. “Come on, we’ll make a little camp, back at the edge of that swamp and wait for Ella.”

  Two cups of pine needle tea and Darby seemed a little bit easier about sticking it out right where they were. Brittany tried not to let Darby see how often she stared at the eastern sky, but there was nothing to see: a ragged tree line, a skittering of small black rain clouds, and the empty green wilderness that was covering everything up, slowly—endlessly. Where in all that greenness was Ella and who had taken her?

  Knees hugged up tight to her chest, Darby sat huddled next to a fallen tree trunk.

  “It’s okay, Brittany. I won’t break, and I’m not dying. We should go find her.”

  Brittany shrugged her off, threw another bit of wood on the fire.

  “Don’t build it up. Let’s go . . . now.” Darby rolled up to her knees. She stood, brushed at the twigs and leaves on her pants. “Come on. Which way should we go? That way, maybe?” She pointed in the direction of the morning sun.

  Darby turned her curious, hopeful blue eyes, so like Ella’s, on Brittany. “Really, I’m fine. I can walk. I can—”

  “Stop! Sit down. We’re not going anywhere.”

  She got that hurt puppy look in her face. Darby was one of those people who couldn’t keep what was inside on the inside—it all showed, everything she was feeling. It was so annoying.

  “It’s okay, Brittany, if you’re scared. I’m scared too. I’m—”

  “Shut up, Darby.”

  “No.” Darby held out her hand. “I understand. I—”

  “Stop.” Brittany grabbed Darby by the shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “Stop. Now. I don’t know how to find her. I don’t know what to do. We’re stuck here! I’m stuck here.”

  Darby didn’t say anything. She reached up to brush Brittany’s cheeks. They were wet. When had she started to cry?

  “Darby, I can’t find Ella.” Brittany swiped at her nose. “I can’t.”

  “Okay, hush now. We’ll stay put and then we’ll figure out what’s next. Okay? Brittany, okay? I’m sorry.”

  Brittany pulled Darby into her arms. They stood quietly, foreheads pressed together.

  “Your nose is running.”

  Brittany sniffed. “I know.”

  “I’m hungry,” Darby sighed.

  “I know.”

  “Come on,” Brittany said. “Let’s do something about food. “Brittany pushed Darby back a step, brushed a blond curl off her sister’s face. “I’ve been wanting me some frogs’ legs.”

  Brittany set about whittling a frog gig: two sharp prongs at the end of a long smooth shaft of wood. Whittling. Brittany ran her thumb alon
g the blade of her pocket knife. It needed sharpening. Days and weeks since the camp and here she was whittling again, but this time there was life and death in the action.

  Darby fed the fire, boiling water to wash with, to drink. Life and death.

  “Come on,” Brittany said. “Let’s do something about lunch.”

  Darby rattled the frogs out of the weeds that lined the bank of the bog and watched for the big ‘gators. Brittany gigged the big, fat bullfrogs that sat among the cattails and reeds. It was mucky, muddy work but pretty easy, and the result was the light, delicious meat of frog’s legs. It was almost fun.

  Brittany laughed when Darby sank up to her knees, yelping. A frog jumped. Brittany jabbed at it with her sharpened stick and pulled up a fat, wiggling croaker.

  “You be careful. Those gators dig holes,” Brittany said.

  “Oh, thanks.” Darby smacked the weeds in front of her with a branch then shot Brittany a sour look over her shoulder. She froze.

  “What? What’s wrong.”

  Darby threw her stick as she slopped her way out of the sway toward Brittany. “Ella!”

  Had Darby gone stupid? Did she have heat stroke? Been snake bit?

  But it was none of those things. Her little sister splashed past Brittany to where Ella stood near a thatch of scrub palmetto with her hand raised. She was waving. What the crap? A tall, thin boy with red hair and a flashing grin stood next to her.

  Darby threw herself at Ella. The boy stepped back. The machete in his hand gleamed. Sharp, very sharp. Brittany slowed her race to Ella’s side. Who was this guy? She raised her frog sticker, frog still kicking.

  The boy’s eyebrows hit his hairline when he saw Brittany’s weapon, and then he laughed out loud.

  He shoved the machete into a sheath on his belt and then held up his hands. There was a raw bite mark on the palm of one hand and a pretty hefty bruise over one eye. Oops.

  She tripped to a stop.

  “Ella, who is this guy?”

  “Brittany, that is Jamie Tallahassee, and he was on patrol last night when he ran into the two of you—Junior Militia type. Right, Jamie?”